


Farewell, Prometheus

by TheClassyCorvid



Category: Frankenstein - Mary Shelley
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Correspondence, M/M, Pastiche
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:47:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27103705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheClassyCorvid/pseuds/TheClassyCorvid
Summary: My affection for my guest overflows, and I sense that I am drowning. How could I love him so deeply? It is because, dear sister, my heart was made for his.
Relationships: Victor Frankenstein/Robert Walton
Comments: 1
Kudos: 18





	1. Letter V

Mrs. Saville, England.

September 7th, 17—

My affection for my guest threatens to dash my soul. It overflows and spills around me, and I sense that I am drowning.

One would endeavour to believe, dear sister, that love uplifts and encourages the weary, downtrodden spirit. Certainly love warms the heart and breathes life into the hopeless and instills vigour into those who have lost their will to carry on. Would you not also agree?

I mistakenly attributed to it these qualities. You may recall my previous correspondence, in which I could not quell my romantic enthusiasm as I confided in you the dreams I have nursed throughout life. I realize now, my sister, that those blissful dreams kept from me the knowledge of the sheer sorrow that appears to be naturally intertwined with love. Perhaps these dreams were a gift, blinding me with ignorance to grant me hope for the future.

I seize the opportunity to write this letter as my guest sleeps. I hold my post beside his bed, as has become my custom. After many days, I am still the only one he trusts to be at his bed. He sleeps fitfully; his own dreams seem to choke him at times, and he starts awake, livid with terror, and trembles fiercely until I speak his name. I cannot begin to describe how my heart fills my throat when I alone am witness to that wondrous change in countenance, as the fear passes and comfort floods and the dark sweet eyes fix upon me in silent mitigation.

He is enchanting even in sleep. Though he is still dreadfully emaciated and frail, a new color begins to bloom in his cheek. This ushered in rebounding hope to me upon first sight, but no longer does it thrill me. Even now, his eyelash stays wet with tears, and my own suffers the same, though my guest cannot know what thoughts plague me, nor that he himself is the bitter cause.

You may have gathered thus far that I love him in ways that I did not know exist, nor could exist in mortal life. I have known him but days. How could I love him so deeply, so passionately?

It is because, kind sister, my heart was made for his. He is so gentle, yet so wise beyond what his years suggest. His mind is ever quick. He knows realms and wonders that I do not. His voice soothes me; his eye comforts me, and when he shares my gaze an unspoken dialogue passes between us that the rest of the world is not privy to. A new language unfolds between us, and we become more fluent by the passing hour. I understand him, and he I. Our grief has become as that of one man, too great for either of us to bear alone.

I have known no other man who could answer my eyes with his own so tenderly. 

Why then, you may enquire, am I so tormented with sorrow, when I have found the one whom I have so diligently sought and yearned for throughout life? Should I not be overjoyed and indebted to Heaven for such fortune? I cannot! for Margaret, I am not likewise a fortune in his eyes. 

I would abandon every hope for him, so sincerely do I desire to live at his side. If I could but offer anything—my plans, my amusements, my dreams—I would give all willingly in exchange for the promise of holding him longer. Yet, when I entreated him to accompany me home to England, he refused, so gentle and quiet as ever. 

"Our lives could begin anew," I insisted. "Our pasts have shaped us in ways that we would not have wished, but they have refined us in such a way that we now fit each other. We have been lost and searching, and by this seemingly malignant turn of fate, we have found a way to become whole again. We can pursue new paths, drawing strength from one another to press onward in the wake of the tragedies we have endured."

"Your benevolence moves me greatly, Captain Walton," said he, placing his thin hand upon mine. "However, I could not in good conscience agree with you, and lead your thoughts to a hope that cannot come to fruition. It is my fate to die here, and perhaps by generosity of providence, were it such a thing, some of the grief and horror in the world will be laid to rest with me."

"Your fever clouds your sense. You're recovering with haste; only days ago you could not even speak. My dear Frankenstein, imagine England! My excellent sister should be so fond of you. You are kindred in spirit—both so gentle and kind and loving."

"My sister was altogether the same. If it were not for my wretched deeds, she would still walk today, enlivening the world with her beauty and generosity. No, Captain; I have resigned myself fully. No woman could be to me what my Elizabeth was, and no man can be to me what my Clerval was."

"I do not wish to take the place of Clerval," I said, overtaken by emotion, which I now suspect was keen desperation, though I maintained myself as quiet as my guest. "I do not seek to overcome his memory or reside in his shadow. The love you still keep for him should be cherished, and the echo of his devotion remembered fondly. But, Frankenstein, does man not have a right side as a mirror to his left? and does he not have one hand the same as the other?"

He searched me with scintillating eyes, and they besought me. Though anguish pervaded me in that moment, even then I still thought him the most beautiful of creatures.

"I have lost everyone dear to me," he said. "My actions have wrought the untimely deaths of a brother, a sister, a servant and a friend. It is a poison, Walton; there is poison upon me, and it cannot be undone, save through my death. Nothing will scour my blackened name well enough to be fit for your home, nor to return to mine, nor to flee to even the most miserable and bleak corner of the earth."

"Then," offered I, "cast away your name, and claim mine instead."

"Your generosity is a virtue far beyond compare, my good friend," he said. The tones of his voice were rich and sweet, and I found myself driven to anguish once more. "But I cannot take it as my own, when there are countless others more deserving. I pray you trust my judgment. I only implore you to stay with me through death, for though I have walked fearlessly where no man has trodden, I fear to step where every man before me has."

Had he not requested I remain with him, I would have done so nevertheless. However, I must confide that repose at his side is an agony which I have never before endured and a torture that should befall no man. My sister, it is love alone that torments me. The knowledge that I will soon lose this beautiful spirit, who seems so suited to mine, is a pain too immense for my shoulders. Could I ever find another? Does providence truly act in such ways, to create two souls unwhole without the other, and draw them together for a fleeting moment in shared grief before wrenching them apart for ever?

I am desperate to lose myself in the softness of his voice and the tenderness of his touch, and bare my heart to the eyes that know me, but there are manacles of despair that weigh upon me. Perhaps, dearest sister, it is true that he brought with him a poisoned cup, near empty from a lifetime of draughts. But if it were so, how gladly would I drink every drop to join him in woe, that he may not go alone!

You will hear from me again soon. I have lost my wonder on this expedition, and have no desire to continue in my present state; perhaps the comfort of home and your loving arms can restore me. May Heaven grant me enough time on earth that I could express the gratitude I owe you. 

With Affection,

Robert W.


	2. Unsent Letter

My guest stirred presently. His sleep had been uneasy, interrupted by convulsions of nightmares and the clacking of teeth. He regarded me with silence when he awoke. The dark lashes obscured his eyes, still wet as were mine, and they blotted out the feeble spark of life that languished.

"I swore I would not leave you," I announced with vehemence. "Rest, my dear Frankenstein, for I assure you I will not wander from your side."

His countenance delineated a certain surprise, tinged by remorse, that instantaneously transformed into a patient appreciation that was enchanting to behold.

"If only we had met at a different time, Captain, or under different circumstances, I should have found no greater pleasure than to be considered your own."

He could not have known how deeply his words cut—! yet it seemed he indeed did, for his half-lidded gaze was sympathetic, as though he could not have helped the blow.

"What wretch would you believe me to be," said he, "if I confide a last wish; a favour with which you could comply, if your kindness allows it."

"I would readily do anything you request of me."

"I have never known another, Captain. I wish for my last breaths to be shared."

He stretched forth his hand, weak and white and stiff, to beckon me. I did not want that he should exert himself by the effort, and took his hand in my own. A tremendous ache overtook me, and I felt keenly that I were in ocean depths and battered by icy grey waters.

I leaned upon him; with a tumultuous hand I caressed aside his hair, and tenderly kissed the pale awaiting lips. As I did, I was alighted with a sudden warmth, like the brilliant disk of the sun hovering over the horizon and bathing the world in hope. When at last I thought to quit him, I found that I could not, and drew to him yet again to kiss once more.

The gentle arms envelloped me and brought me nearer, assuring me and supplicating. I obliged; I held my hand to his flushed cheek to still him, and kissed the soft lips again until I discovered the flavour of brandy still warm upon his tongue. His fingers wandered in weary journey through my hair before growing fainter and settling upon my shoulders. I revered him, and wondered, as he partook of my breath, if Adam in Eden felt such a thrill when he was imbued with life from God's own breath. 

A chill blossomed within me like spidersilk frost creeping over the rose to blacken it. My guest sighed against my cheek. His eyes were shut; the long lashes were still, and had I not been atop him to feel that meager sigh I should have mistaken him for dead. Overcome, I pressed my hands to his face to turn his head toward the wavering lamplight. Shadows, cold and blue, played across his refined features in haunting elegance. I became fraught with compulsion to kiss him again, but I refrained. I only watched him, committing to memory every aspect of this beautiful creature who had entrusted himself to my passionate embrace. 

Under the awe of my gaze, the lashes became dewy once more, and tears slipped freely down the cold cheek. I pressed him close, ready, in my ignorance, to defend him from every thought, emotion, or being that wracked him with such grief. I did not remember that one cannot protect a loved one from what has already transpired in the past, nor can he shelter him from memories.

"Please," I said, speaking now softly against his hair, "come with me. I am the only one alive who knows your heart, and I would not divulge your tragedies to other men. Things will be well, my friend. I will bring you home. Let us cast our worries to the sea, where they can never be recovered, and dream of our future."

"I am indebted to you for bearing such a weight as I have brought. Those who love me are fated to suffer, I am afraid, and I cannot allow you to feel my anguish."

"Is it not too late?"

My guest clutched my sleeves as if entering a fit, and that strange glint of madness lit up his tears, but he soon weakened, and his hands lingered upon my arms. 

"I did not intend to pass on my agony to you, Captain. I desired to tell my tale, that perhaps by admittance of my wretched deeds I could atone, but I did not wish for you to be so moved by my folly."

"Your folly? or, much more, yourself?"

"I am worn by exhaustion," he said, following an oppressive silence. "Keep your hand upon my heart, my dear Captain; press me near, and stay your lips upon mine. Your company warms and numbs me like an ale, forestalling damnation for yet a little while."


	3. Letter VI

Mrs. Saville, England.

September 10th, 17—

Words have escaped me until now. My grief is yet immeasurable, and my heart is gripped with agony so that I can scarcely draw a breath, but I must provide account of the events that transpired between this and my last letter.

My guest passed on the evening of my previous letter's date. I felt him grow cool in my embrace, and his final breath lingered, sweet and soft, against my lips. He smiled as he slipped into sleep, as though respite were welcome.

I could not bear to part from him, and in my fit of despair I must have believed that if I held him close enough, and chafed his gentle hands and shared each breath with him, that it would invigourate him and the lustre of his eyes would fix warmly upon me again. Though it is of little comfort to myself, it may relieve you to know that, at the brink of his life, this miserable creature did not languish upon the ice in solitude, but was recipient of the utmost adoration and affection. I only wish he could have known my love longer.

Is it meet for a man to live in such a manner as I? and will I ever again watch the vast ocean flutter beneath the salty breeze, or witness the scarlet flame of a sunset searing across the mountaintops, without longing for him?

He confided that four deaths occurred, by the ill humour of fate, from his misdeeds. His devoted brother, his loving sister, his kindhearted housekeeper, and his dearest friend. I do not believe, Margaret, that he was privy to a fifth death. I walk as a living man, but, as it now stands, I have none of the dreams and hopes that are essential in quickening the spirit. I am pressed to know how I can continue my life, haunted by the ghost of passion I felt for this man who was wrenched from my grasp so soon. Could I ever feel so strongly for another? or could I ever kiss new lips without remembering him? 

I took the last draught from his cup, and I fear it will torment me for ever. Supplicate God above, dear Margaret, on behalf of your poor brother, whose heart has been ushered away to heaven by the ethereal soul who was not fit for a wicked world. 

I wish to see you soon.

  


R. W.


End file.
